


and you call yourself icarus

by nethica



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Angst, M/M, Retribution Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-19 22:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19981612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nethica/pseuds/nethica
Summary: You want to be good for him.





	and you call yourself icarus

You think you remember what your old sketchbook used to look like. Pages and pages of ~~friends~~ people drawn in pencil and ink, and you hate to think that it hurts to remember because a lot of them were of Ricardo. Younger, less scarred, happier after he kissed you for the first time next to burning rubble, before you aimed that gun and fired

and fired

and fired

And you stopped it. You ended a calamity as best you could, but does going down in history as a hero make it worth it?

You crashed through that window like a dying man because that’s what you were—are, and he couldn’t stop you then.

Maybe he can now, but you wouldn’t bet on it.

You’re not setting yourself up to lose.

\---

Being wealthy is something new to you.

Being able to afford humanity’s luxuries is liberating in a way, and the apartment you’ve bought is a testament to that. The dark and ragged clothes you’re wearing are worn and torn for aesthetic’s sake, tagged with zeros not enough to make a dent in the cash you’ve got stacked in a safe or two somewhere, so you think it’s all right.

You can splurge on two sketchbooks and a multitude of pencils, maybe some pens too. The good kind.

Cuckoos aren’t supposed to have hobbies but you’ve never been good at playing a role, at picking up a part and letting the script lead you.

The cashier totals it all up but you’re not listening. You throw a wad of cash their way, probably three times the actual price, but you’re already out the door, bag in hand, thinking about the lightning and stupid mustaches that will probably fill up half of the first book.

\---

“Arting again?”

You look up from your lap, neck half-snapped because you aren’t the smartest guy when it comes to proper posture. The pencil in your hand scratches against the paper, there’s a streak of charcoal you’re gonna have to erase later but you don’t focus on that because arting is not a fucking word.

He laughs, of course, he knows that it isn’t a word but if it gets you to wear a face that isn’t cracked and broken and leaking ~~why is it leaking, you are ** _empty_**~~ he’ll do it again.

“You should be at a desk for this, can you even afford the chiropractor you’ll need after a few hours?”

Yes.

But you follow him anyway.

Up and out of the park and to the place where everything seems to go back to.

\---

You haven’t kissed him in over seven years but you think you still know what it’s like. Not that you had ever considered doing it again, no, especially not when Ricardo’s giving you that look that says he thinks he knows more than he’s saying.

He’s good that way.

You’re just trying to keep up.

\---

Herald is what, twenty-five? So young.

But here you are, teaching him how to be the hero that you could never be no matter what shit Ricardo’s been feeding him.

You’re taking a break when you feel a spike of curiosity from your right. You turn your head to see his eyes on the little corner peeking out of the bag you brought today.

For some reason you’re nervous.

“Is that...?” Herald knows about your artistic tendencies, courtesy of you-know-who, and his excitement is threatening to override his patience. “I mean, I know you’re good at–“

You raise a hand and it’s impressive how fast he stands to attention.

“I’m not showing you what’s in it.”

“O-of course, I would never...” _pressure you into revealing every facet of yourself, not when you’re not ready_

The smile comes unbidden and you get the sudden desire to plummet. Take a dive down the side of the roof and see how fast Herald would catch you.

Because he would, you know he would, Sidestep was his hero and that’s who he sees when he looks at you sometimes.

Sometimes.

Who does he see the other times?

(You haven’t dug that deep yet.)

\---

Herald asks you out to dinner.

You say yes, why?

Do you like him?

Don’t.

\---

You’ve got enough problems, so why do you keep looking for more?

Always raring for a fight you can win, only to jumpstart a war you won’t.

You get jealous when he flirts with the waitress, get jealous when he flirts with you when you’re wearing a body that isn’t yours, but you stomp up to dangle the fact that someone with bright smiles and golden hair likes you right in front of his face.

Raring for a fight you can win. You never could have held him on a leash years ago, he can’t hold you in one now.

You’re an asshole.

He doesn’t say it but you do inside your head when he leaves and the boy with golden hair enters, smile brightening up the room and, god forbid, your mood.

He’s a little tense at the shoulders but his hands are loose, fingers tapping his thighs as you kick your legs out like a child while sitting on the counter like a child.

“Wanna tussle?” you ask, because he needs it. “You look like you could use a punching bag.” You need it.

He smiles a little wider and your chest goes warm.

“You’re not a punching bag.”

Wrong, he’s wrong but you don’t correct him and it feels nice to be thought of as someone to go easy on.

You tell him you’re just tired when he throws you down onto the rooftop, blinded by the halo around his head when he leans over you. A little worried but awestruck.

At himself or the way you’re looking at him?

Maybe you were onto something when you turned to him that night. Looked into his eyes from across the battlefield as the press recorded everything and you told him about your wings. How they give you freedom.

He’s too bright.

You know exactly what good it’ll do you to put wax out in the sun.

\---

No good.

You wake up in the middle of the night slowly unlike nights before, and the first thing you do is snort.

Daniel snores. Not heavily, just enough to disturb the quiet now and again. You look down at your hand, caught in his grip with the fingers laced. You stare. You stare with burning eyes, a burning throat, burning everything because you’re no good.

Chen told you to be good to him. How do you do that? Can you be?

You might have finished your first fight quick but you still hurt him. Still beat him into the ground like it was nothing because it was nothing. At the time.

And now here you are, wallowing. Pressing kisses to the back of his hand like you can take it all back if you just act gentle enough. Forgiveness in exchange for tenderness, surely that’ll work? Maybe not, but it’ll ease your conscience. Maybe. Barely.

Fuck.

He’s stirring awake but you don’t dare drop his hand because as much as you should, you want to be selfish. What’s a little more greed when you’ve already taken so much.

Half awake, an arm brings you in and pulls you close because, ah, you’re crying now. He doesn’t want you to cry, not again, _I love you_

_Please don’t cry anymore_

_I fell in love with you_

_You’re real and I’m here_

_I’m here and I’m not leaving_

_I’m in love with you, Saxon_

He’s too loud, too soft, too sweet with you when all you are made of are edges and teeth.

But don’t you want to hear it again?

(With anger and fear in your tears and your arms open in a challenge.)

Let’s hear it again.

(He’s not angry with you. He’s angry with what they’ve done to you.)

All again, for the first time.

(His touch is reverent. So unlike **_t̶̡͝h̸͈̊e̶̲̾m̷͈̎._** )

God, yes.

You want to hear it again.

Even if it burns you to dust.

**Author's Note:**

> softcore by the neighbourhood is a flystep song, in my opinion


End file.
